Page 21 of Darkwater Lane

“Enough!” I don’t realize I shout the word until a horse in a nearby field lifts its head, its ears twitching as I glance around, hoping no one is near enough to have heard or noticed my distress.

Everything seems to be continuing as normal: an instructor giving pointers during a lesson in a distant ring. Music filtering from the barn as Connor and a few other kids his age work through their chores. Hooves pounding as a woman steers her horse through an obstacle course.

I blow out a trembling breath that clouds the cold air and sit back in the chair. My fingers grip the arms, nails digging through the paint and into the wood. I force myself to release my grasp. I focus on box breathing: inhale for four beats, hold for four beats, exhale for four, then pause for four before starting again.

Already it’s affecting my parasympathetic nervous system, slowing my heart rate and easing the panic churning my muscles. After several more minutes I feel my body returning to a somewhat normal state. At least enough that my legs don’t tremble when I stand to hunt for the earphones that I threw into the dead grass.

When I’m finally settled again, I stare at the podcast’s cover arton my phone. It’s of a playing card, the king of hearts looking toward the left on top and the queen of hearts mirrored below. Their throats are slit, with blood dripping from the wounds.

It’s pretty obvious the king is meant to represent Melvin and I’m the queen. That both our necks are cut, presumably killing blows, isn’t particularly subtle. I stare at the words written in smaller font above the title:The Lost Angels Presents.

A familiar rage rises inside me, coupled with a newer exhaustion. First, Sam came for me, then Miranda Tidewell, then Leonard Varrus. Now that Leo has disappeared, it looks like Rowan Applegate is taking his place as the head of the Lost Angels to continue their crusade against me and my family.

The problem is that it’s difficult to hate them. They lost loved ones in horrific and brutal ways. For some of them, that kind of pain is too overwhelming to face, and it’s easier to manage it if they turn it into anger and blame.

Even though I wasn’t involved in their loved ones’ deaths, I still understand why they find me complicit. Melvin was kidnapping and torturing women in our garage, practically under my own nose. He claimed to be woodworking, and I never asked questions—never wondered why he came in from the garage without the telltale smell of sawdust on him. Never asked what happened to all the furniture he claimed to be building.

If I’d been more curious, more suspicious, less milquetoast and deferential, maybe I would have discovered the truth earlier. Perhaps I could have turned him in to the authorities before he killed so many women. Before he killed Callie.

The truth was, there were moments I was scared of him, but I pushed those fears aside because I didn’t know what to do with them. I had the life I wanted: two wonderful children, a house in a safe neighborhood with good schools, and a husband who supported us financially. I didn’t want to do anything to rock that boat.

I accept the responsibility of my ignorance. But that doesn’t mean I deserve to be hunted. I don’t deserve to have my family targeted so publicly.

For a moment, I consider deleting the podcast—deleting all of it, actually: the SuperSicko folder, the Sicko Patrol files, the programs I use to access the Melvin Royal message boards on the dark web. I think about recommitting to my promise to move on from all of it. I know it’s what Lanny wants. After visiting Reyne U and getting a taste of what a normal, anonymous life would look like, she’s craved more of it.

She doesn’t understand why I spend so much time and energy surrounding myself with negativity instead of just letting it all go.

What she doesn’t understand is that ignorance isn’t bliss. Ignorance is dangerous. Ignorance doesn’t stop the threat from existing, it just ensures you’re not prepared for it when it comes.

That’s why I can’t let it go. Why I can’t move on.

With that in mind, I slide the earphones back in and brace myself for Melvin’s voice. This time, at least, I know it’s coming.

8

GWEN

When Connor gets into the car after finishing work at the barn, he’s quiet and reserved. I ask him how it went, and he shrugs and says, “Fine.” This time, I know to read more into his silence. He’s usually full of energy after leaving the barn, and spends most of the ride home chatting about the other kids, what’s new with the horses, etcetera.

After listening to the second episode ofThe Royal Murders, I was really looking forward to a bit of normalcy—something to take my mind off the rage coursing through my system after hearing the vile innuendos the podcast hosts made about Sam.

They may as well have called him a murderer. Which they essentially did. They just tucked the wordallegedin there every time they said it so they could avoid any potential civil liability.

I decided I’d worry about the podcast later. Now, I needed to focus on Connor.

“Was Noreen there?” I ask, hoping to draw him out. “Any update on how things went with her parents?” Noreen is a girl his age who also works at the barn. She’s high drama and almost always facingsome sort of manufactured crisis or another, which makes her good conversation fodder.

“She didn’t really say.” He leans his head against the window and stares out at the scenery passing by.

That he isn’t even interested in discussing Noreen surprises me and makes me a little worried. I remember my therapist’s advice: address issues head-on, but with empathy, using I-feel statements and without putting any pressure on him. I give it a go. “I feel like you might be upset about something. Care to talk about it?”

He blows out a frustrated breath. “No, Mom, I really don’t.”

As much as I want to push back and press for more information, I force myself to say, “Just remember I’m here if you do.”

“I know.” I don’t have to look at him to see the eye roll; it’s in his tone.

I navigate Knoxville rush hour with my hands gripped so tightly around the wheel my palms start to ache. We sit in silence, neither of us reaching for the radio. Finally, when we’re about five minutes from home, Connor says, “One of the kids in the barn was listening to the podcast.”

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